Dichotomy
by FSB
Summary: Short looks into the relationships and events that shape Walter Kovacs / Rorschach. Slash. Updates whenever.
1. Dichotomy I

Title: Dichtomy  
Pairings : Nite Owl II / Rorschach, Silk Spectre II/ Nite owl  
Time period : 1985  
Warnings : None, really. Excessive use of sentence fragments.  
Summary : Short looks into Rorschach's relationships with Daniel and Laurel.

He was not a small wounded animal. He did not seek nor need redemption. He was redemption. Was justice. Black and white was very beautiful. Simple; clean. Like his fist hitting the face of a criminal.

Whores solicit him. Seem to want to touch him; do not want Walter; want imagined money of greasy, dirty, prophet of doom. He does not want Walter; he is Rorschach. He is not weak. He is moral absolution.

This is what he tells himself when he breaks into the house of his only friend:  
he is feral. Will not love, submit to touch from being fed, given shelter. Nite Owl II has much to answer for, for abandoning pact. For abandoning HIM.

Rorschach has never given up on Nite Owl. He waits. Walter waits as well. Waits for the day when he can sleep on Daniel's couch without dreaming. Without finding his face shoved into a pillow that smells of his friend and his hands sticky and shoved down into his own pants upon waking. First, stopped sleeping with pillows. Then stopped sleeping on couch. He only slept in the tunnel downstairs now. Walter was grateful he was no longer a teenager, no longer in his twenties; dreams had become infrequent. It was exceedingly rare that he ever woke up aching, yearning for something he couldn't, wouldn't, put a name to.

Increased level of violence lately had them both worried about their old partner. Mask-killer even more so. Lately, Laurel has been around. The looks she gives Rorschach are hateful. The looks he gives her are indifferent. She is domesticated; needy. Animal who played at being feral, but was never without home, without warmth. Without the loving strokes of an owner, or a readily accessible feeling of belonging.

How simple it is to be woman, he thinks. Look pretty, clean, and everyone wants to take you home. Is prized pet ever sad? Go from one cage to another, one man to another. How appropriate that she ends up in the owl's nest, where she can play at spreading wings.

He could not blame her for being born with advantages. What he dreamt about was immoral; taint on his soul. Was better this way, even if whole world went to hell. He was already there.


	2. Dichotomy II

Title: Dichtomy II  
Pairings : Nite Owl II / Rorschach, Silk Spectre II/ Nite owl  
Time period : 1985  
Warnings : None, really. Excessive use of sentence fragments.  
Summary : Daniel berates Rorschach after unexpected encounter.

Disclaimer: All characters are property of Alan Moore and Dave Gibbons

She was soft and weak. Woman.  
When backed into corner, viciousness and claws. Someday, Rorschach hoped, Daniel would see. See what women become. See how dishonest. See whore-goddess, harpy, vagina-mouth-monster slowly choking life, colour, virtue, decency, all that was good out of Nite Owl. Rorschach hoped, but knew Daniel would probably never see. Dan would never back Laurel into a corner. Not the same way he cornered Rorshach one night.

"What the hell is wrong with you? That was totally unnecessary!"

"Justice always necessary"

"The punishment didn't equal the crime, Rorschach."

"Scum gets what scum deserves. All scum."

"Rorschach... all he did was look at me funny."

"No. Thoughts, filthy thoughts. Clearly seen in eyes. Eyes not worthy of seeing anymore." The key words were left out of Rorschach's low even monotone. You, Daniel. Not worthy of seeing you. You can clearly see filthy thoughts in -my- eyes. Thank God you can't see eyes. Can't see weak, pitiful Walter. Not worthy of you seeing his eyes. Degrading.

Daniel inhaled a sharp, painful breath, "Damn your eyes."

They had long walked away from the man in gaudy leathers, with one pierced ear, who had -leered- at Dan. Dan had called an ambulance while the poor bastard writhed on the ground, his eyes viciously pierced by Rorschach's gloved fingers.

To Dan, the spreading pool of blood from the man's face looked like butterfly wings.... He'd clearly been staring at Rorschach's mask too often lately. But as with so many years ago, the mask remained inscrutable, no matter how the shapes on it whirled. He swore his ex-partner had never been quite this bad.


	3. Dichotomy III

Title : Dichotomy III  
Pairing : Rorschach/ Nite Owl II  
Warnings : none  
summary : Rorschach and sugar. Daniel and weight.  
time period: 1976

Rorschach took his toast with peanut butter, bananas and honey. He drank milk with honey.  
_at the same time . _ Dan stared in horrified fascination.

"Rorschach, why... why so much sugar?"

"Extra energy, Daniel." he grunted.

"Bullshit! You've just got a sweet tooth like a five year old girl!"

Rorschach slammed his fist down on the table, jolting some milk out of the glass and over his hand. "Watch it, Daniel... dangerous waters you tread." Rorschach's pink, cat-like tongue snuck out over his bare hand and laved at the syrupy milk, slippery and rough like the rest of him.

Dan swallowed thickly. Lucky bastard. Dan slumped in his chair, forehead on the table.

He mumbled, "It's not fair. I have to watch what I eat like a hawk! Yet there you are, eating more sugar in a day than I do in a month..."

Rorschach snorted, "Eat less often, WOMAN."

Dan's head snapped up "What. What did you just say?"

"Complain like woman, may as well BE woman. What's next on list, not being able to catch handsome man?"

Dan's jaw worked soundlessly for a few moments. That was the most words he'd heard from his partner since... well a really long time. And he was cracking jokes! Jokes at his partner's expense, but still. He sensed some underlying bitterness, however.

"Rorschach...I, I'm sorry." Dan burst into laughter.

Under his mask, Rorschach's ears flamed red. Daniel was concerned with looks then. He was angry. Even luxury milk not worth it. He downed it quickly and abruptly left the table, then the apartment, ignoring his partner's pleas to return.


	4. Dichotomy IV

Title: Dichotomy IV  
pairings : Walter / Nite Owl II , Nite Owl II/ Silk Spectre II  
warnings : None. Possible rambling.  
summary : The day Rorschach discovered Nite Owl II's alter-ego.  
time period: early 1970s

Summer sunshine didn't suit his city; it was meant to be raining.

Soft misting of fog in clothes, dewdrops in hair; heavy rain somehow lessening and worsening smell of filth simultaneously; black clouds mirroring endless in skyscrapers, airships appearing as rogue clouds. New York's true face was meant to be grey, regardless of time of day. People noticed his smell less in the rain. Movements were further obscured by soft patters, torrential downpours; downsides however. April, October, coat did not dry. Occasionally mildewed. Did not catch in time, had to replace. Expensive, bothersome.

Winter was less than desirable as well; footprints in the snow went both ways. Cold meant lining had to go in in trench coat, movements slowed a little. More to repair.

Spring was good, but Fall was his favourite. Beautiful colours. Usually rained during the night, not during the day. Slight chill made exertion while hunting criminals more tolerable. Exotic birds more visible as they migrated. Everywhere, things wasting away, going to sleep. Fading, like the lie under his true face.

Fall was when he first noticed Daniel.

Walking around with his sandwich board, Rorschach had picked up his newspaper as usual. Had sat down in shade of a golden maple tree to read it, removed the sign. Gentle breeze was coming off nearby pond. The burnt smell of dying plants and rotting leaves had not yet saturated the park air.

Hearing the ducks quack and squabble amongst themselves more than usual, he had looked up to see a man feeding them. His smile was gentle; expression patient, fond. There was a sketchpad in one of his hands; the mechanics of a mallard's wing sketched out in intricate, loving detail. He knew that smile. Had worn it when Rorschach had cautiously reached for grappling hook gun as though it may bite him, and clumsily thanked Nite Owl for grappling hook. Had not poured over avian sketches in great detail, but was very sure precise yet soft strokes on paper were familiar as well.

Studiedly casual, head dropped to chest, yet eyes roving like beetles on over turned log, he examined the man's profile. Chin and nose the same. Hair and eye colour not known, but given skin tone and features, brown not unexpected. Height matched. Build slightly bulkier from civilian clothes. Shoulders were not in same confident set, but supposed that was to be expected.

His heart was beating erratically. Hoped onset of bloodclots was not impending. Worried if needed pace-maker. Walter's expression didn't change, and a wheezy "Eehhnk" was his only outward reaction.

In the late fall light, eyes intent on avians, Nite Owl surprisingly beautiful. His hair was prismatic; clean and refracting the sunlight in multiple shades of brown. Fascinated, Walter got to his feet and slowly shuffled over. He felt especially shabby and dirty next to this man. Could not bring himself to care.

The topic of conversation came easily. "Bread unhealthy for ducks. Better off giving food to humans." Walter's low, quiet monotone reached the man's ears.

Nite Owl looked over at him, his smile amused. "I know. Really I like Owls best.... but I thought I should expand my horizons a little. Feeding an animal is the best way to get it close enough to study."

Something twisted in Walter's gut. Was that what he was to Nite Owl?

"Even most dangerous animal?" Walter rasped a little, his affront overcoming his surprise.

Nite Owl blinked in fashion true to his name. Then, a sly smile curved his lips. "Man?"

"Man. Walter." Walter held out his hand for the bread. Seemingly by reflex, Nite Owl gave the bag to him.

"Daniel."

"Sit?"

"Oh, sure." They sat together in the dazzling late afternoon sunshine on the embankment. Daniel sketched the ducks furtively, one leg up to make the sketchpad a makeshift easel.

Rorschach sat in a relaxed slouch, slowly ate a couple of pieces of bread, being certain to hold the food and consume it in a manner different from usual. Not that Daniel was particularly paying him more attention than the ducks. Sloppy. What if he had a knife? His partner was not the best judge of character. Ignored explicit warning.

Daniel. He rolled the name over in his mind, silently mouthing it. Tried it as two syllables, as three. He wasn't sure how it would sound until his lips shaping the word gave it breath. "Do you like wild animals? Or just ones playing at domesticity?"

"Huh... animals in parks are good," Daniel replied thoughtfully, "It's not like being caged, and I still get to see them. They're less afraid of humans so usually they're not too hard to find. Easier to study."

"Don't like birds with clipped wings, in cages, then."

Daniel turned a shocked look to the soft-spoken redhead before glancing away again. He didn't understand the expression in the man's eyes. What the faint lines in his face meant. "No! No.... Sorry." He raked a hand through his bangs, messing up his hair. The gentle breeze turned less gentle and carried on with the job. "Caging a bird, clipping its wings... it's wrong. It's a betrayal of what a bird is all about. Birds were born to fly. I may like them close, but I would never, ever, do anything that went against their nature." Daniel looked a little sad, and continued.

"I used to have a bird when I was small. It sang beautifully inside its cage. My parents warned me to never open the cage and let it out. I didn't listen. Nothing was ever so beautiful as the note she sang when she flew out the window."

Walter's hands trembled a little.

"Have not kept bird since?"

"No, not ever again. As my best friend would say, 'Fine like this.'"

Walter shook. "Yes," Rorschach said, as the hobo closed his eyes.

Years later, pampered bird with red plumage and canary yellow colouring left gilded cage for Ornithologist.

Walter remembered golden fall as Rorschach died in white summer.


	5. Dichotomy V

_**Dichotomy V**_

Title: Dichotomy V  
Pairings: Rorschach/ Nite Owl II  
Warnings : None. Simon & Garfunkel.  
summary : Homes as opposed to houses; Rorschach doesn't do "happy". First direct time-line sequel.  
time period: early 1970s, directly after Dichotomy IV

Even Rorschach needed a place where he could stop being Rorschach for awhile. Or perhaps, to a lesser degree would be a better way to put it. Walter had trudged to his apartment, opening door to yelling again. Determined to rest, he had put Simon and Garfunkel's "Bridge Over Troubled Water" into his portable cassette player, slammed his headphones on, and lain back onto the thin sheets on his bed to listen.

The clear, rich voice of Art Garfunkel calmed him. Yes, he needed a place of his own. Necessary. Could not compromise identity further by spending greater amount of time with Daniel. Bad enough Rorschach occasionally slept at the Owl's nest. Worse again, stolen afternoon in park with Daniel as Walter.

Would not be good if Daniel recognized false face. Make him harder to track by daylight.

Could not be friend . Could only be partner. Close, too close already. Must stay closer to shadows during daylight hours for next few weeks following discovery. Unbidden, his toes were moving to the rhythm of the song he was listening to. Nervous tick, perhaps? No. Did not get nervous. Was full of nerve. Vibrating with it. No, not trembling. Just difficulty resting. Too much sugar likely culprit.

With a sigh, he leapt from bed and walked into his filthy kitchen. Wasn't so bad, really. Just old dishes, floor slightly sticky. Might as well be productive if high on sugar. He turned the heat on in the oven and gathered the five ingredients he needed to make Irish soda bread. Simple to make; addition of raisins provided extra energy. Enough food for two days .Foolish not to make occasionally.

Some sort of low buzzing was emitting from his throat in the span of twenty minutes it took him to make the bread. Cough trapped in throat, perhaps. Couldn't be that Rorschach didn't know how to hum and Walter was vaguely remembering. With a snarl, he ripped the headset off of his head and threw the cassette player across the room. Made loud clatter. It was sturdy however, and survived.

Walter dropped to his knees, his hands fisted in his hair.

". No. NONONONONONONO NO!" Enough. Enough indulgences. He was Rorschach, he wasn't Walter! No one was going to come to his home. Daniel wasn't going to come to his apartment, to listen to music, trade tapes. If it didn't make resting easier, would not have music player to drown out noise of neighbours.

He didn't have a home. Just a place to sleep, away from Daniel. Away from... he couldn't finish the thought. Cowardice, unacceptable. Away from only friend. Away from only person he truly wanted to spend more time with. Best friend. Daniel had called him his best friend...and he was so broken, he could not smile. It didn't matter. Didn't need smile to clear streets of scum. Did not need anything other than sign to warn people of his city that their damnation and salvation was walking among them.

He stood and rinsed off the bowl and spoon he'd used to make the bread. Enough that he could use it again next time. He put the pan in the oven. Thoughts of sharing bread did not break through the wall to conscious thought.


	6. Dichotomy VI

Title: Dichotomy VI  
Pairings : Rorschach / Nite Owl II  
warnings: None. Self-indulgence  
time period: Indefinite  
summary: mothers and whores; Rorschach reminisces

Dandelions sprouted up everywhere in the spring, like criminals. Popping up from between cracks, in the middle of grassy fields, in the side of a gutter. Everywhere. Sometimes, Rorschach despaired. However, those moments were only a temporary weakness. The long nights of winter were receding. Soon, less hours of night. Less time for criminals to operate in their natural habitat. More time for him to sleep.

He would never confess to how deeply he enjoyed the extra naps in the rare sunshine, remembering a day in the park. Not even to himself.

On rainy afternoons, back when he was so small it was barely a wisp of memory, his mother had cradled him. Back when he was yet a toddler, not yet grown into an ugly child, and his mother had still loved him.  
"Hate rainy days, baby. Hate 'em. Watch though, come summer, this time a' day'll be worse. Hot, sweaty. Stinky. Ugh." Things like that, she had said.

They'd watched old crime dramas together; the black and white world contained within was soothing to little Walter. Bad men were always caught. Good men always won. One day while sick, he listened to a marathon of "The Shadow" on the radio while his mother tended to him. As he drifted in and out of fever, it seemed the Shadow's chilling, dark voice kept snapping him awake as he interrogated criminals. Called him back. The rain trickling down the narrow window pane nearby lulled him into slumber again each time.

That was back before everything had gone to hell. He always wondered what had changed. Once he learned to talk properly, was that when mother had started to hate him? When his clumsy steps and curious mind caused him to climb on and break things? Was it when his growing body needed more money to take care of and she had sunk to... to that?

The two-headed monster conjoined at the crotch, the one that had haunted so many of his nightmares when he was young, floated across the surface of his mind. As an adult, he realized his mother had been a masochist. Obvious, really. Enjoy rough, painful sex, get paid for it. Back before a culture of leather, whips and chains formed around it like the filth on a scabbed, crusted, yellowed, diseased... eye.

Rorschach hated whores, but a whore had birthed Walter. Indirectly birthed him. He feared for them. Was afraid of them. His mother died and he hadn't cried that day. Nor did he cry the day he was taken away to the home for wayward children. He had nightmares, woke up with salt crusted eyes. Found ironic that between mother, apartment, and "home", still belonged nowhere. Found name laughable. Concept laughable.

He had to protect whores. They were mothers, sisters, wives, friends. They all had their reasons. They were human. Perhaps more human than he. He would admit no weakness, permit no vice. Before leaving home for wayward children, was terrified upon release that he'd have to prostitute himself. Whoreson, only good to be whore, sell body like his mother, wasn't that how it went?

But no. Home had helped him find job as apprentice machinist at garment factory. Young, nimble fingers more use there. When heard of Kitty's death, came to a realization. He had to protect women. Had to protect potential for life. Some days, would have preferred to be dead. But mother had chosen life for him. His and her own. For all children, must protect their mothers. For every murderer, there were another 38 also holding the knife, looking on, doing nothing. Rorschach no longer did nothing. He was the boy who shoved a cigarette into his tormentor's eye become man.

Where there's life there's hope; dandelions struggled among the cracks. Grew strong, persevered against bad conditions, worse odds. Every spring, like clockwork they came; with their bright heads, spread hope. So it was when Rorschach met Nite Owl II that he realized how hope spreads; seeds scattering in the wind, the waning moon bringing the dawn. Rorschach would never have a home; but for a number of years, he had somewhere he belonged.


	7. Dichotomy VII

_**Dichotomy VII**_  
Title: Dichotomy VII  
Pairings : Walter Kovacs / original male character  
Time period : 1957  
Warnings: Sexual language, long  
Summary : affection, violence, love ; Walter Kovacs tutors and is befriended by a boy dichotomous of him.  
Disclaimer: Walter Kovacs is Alan Moore and Dave Gibbon's creation. "The Tyger" is by William Blake. Walter's poem is by me.

Walter was fascinated by English class. He always had a million questions he wanted to ask the teacher, but he kept silent. It was better to keep his mouth shut instead of drawing even more attention to himself. Smallest in his class, and lone redhead; he already had enough negative attention. When he did ask questions, it was after class, when talking to his teachers alone. On one such day, as he was coming to ask questions about "Of Mice and Men", he overheard the raised, pleading voice of another boy from his class. It sounded like Dean Springfield, a boy Walter knew through reputation as the Charlton home's romeo.

"C'mon teach! I know my grades ain't the best, but I'm tryin', yanno'? I just don't get this stuff!"

"Mr. Springfield, if you don't manage at least a B for this term, we're holding you back another year."

Walter snuck around to the cracked door to listen.

"I'm trying as hard as I can! But I can't do the assignments if I don't understand the material, sir."

Walter raised his hand and knocked on the classroom door before coming in, face blank as though he had not heard anything.

"Ah, Mr. Kovacs, do come in," his english teacher, Mr. Dougherty said.

Dean Springfield raised an eyebrow.

"Excellent timing! I do believe Mr. Springfield could use a tutor. It would be beneficial to you both."

Walter kept silent, his eyes asking what possible reward there was for him.

"We'll give you a little extra pocket money, and Dean here will manage a passing grade. What do you say?"

Dean looked as if he was going to protest, but his mouth was a firm line as he looked at Walter. The two locked eyes and assessed each -other silently. Walter was pale, freckled, short, scrawny with a mop of red hair. Dean was a little darker, with clear skin, a little taller, some muscle and his hair couldn't seem to decide if it was brown or black. After a long moment, they locked eyes and nodded in unison.

"Yes Sir," Walter said.

"Understood, Sir," Dean said.

***

Walter started tutoring Dean on odd days of the week, after they had English class. Or at least, he tried. The first time, they met at the library.

"So... the boy who always has a million questions on his face but never says a peep. I'm Dean Springfield." Dean looked up at Walter and grinning, held out his hand to be shaken. Walter shook his hand automatically; manners had been drilled into him and he also did not want to start this off on the wrong foot. Nonetheless, his lips moved seemingly of their own accord.

"Walter Kovacs. So, the boy who whores himself out to all girls," he replied, his lips twitched slightly to one side.

"Hey Hey Hey now! Yeah I'm that good, but I'm not that kinda' guy!" Dean said good-naturedly. Walter couldn't help a small smile from forming.

Dean was slouched in his chair, rocking it on the back two legs. "I think we should get to know each-other first. It'll help us to work together better, you know?"

"No, I don't know. Seems superfluous, Dean."

Dean had a shit-eating grin on his face, and he clapped Walter on the back, continuing as if he hadn't heard the slightly smaller boy. "My pop's a world war II vet, a traveling salesman. After mom died, he couldn't look after me and Robby so well. Got into a lot of fights in school, so I got shipped here and Robby got shipped off to some private boarding school."

Walter watched Dean's dancing eyes as he spoke. Everyone had different ways of expressing grief, he supposed. "Unfortunate. You must miss...Rob. He's your younger brother?"

"Yeah, three years younger. Little bastard is sprouting up like a weed and already taller than me. He's not too far from here, so we see each-other and dad on holidays. It's not so bad. Still, I can't wait to get out of here so I can go shoot some commies like my dad." Dean's smile was crooked.

"You wish to join the army right out of school, then."

"Hell yeah. Say Red, what do you wanna' do when you get out of this hell-hole?"

Walter was a little startled. He'd never really thought about it. Mostly, in his years here he'd been trying to catch up to the other children in his schooling, and tried to stay un-noticed. "I... I do not know, Dean."

Dean rocked in chair, still chockful of nervous energy. "You thought about the army? Or the navy?" there was something odd about Dean's smile at that last word. Walter couldn't quite put his finger on it, however.

"Cannot join either. Flat-footed; they do not take people who cannot wear standard issue uniform boots."

"Tough break!"

"Some people...born into bad luck." Walter whispered.

Dean appeared not to hear him; maybe he hadn't.

***

Slowly, the two boys got to know each-other. Dean was always full of piss and vinegar, forever enthusiastic in everything he did. Walter was cool and methodical in how he approached explaining the material and assignments to the other boy, but warmed to him considerably. Sometimes, he even smiled.

One day they were studying outside, Walter and Dean both working on a poetry assignment with a nature theme.

"Rargh! Why is this so hard?" Dean exclaimed after a prolonged bout of his pen not moving on paper.

"Not difficult, Dean. Try not to think about how hard it is, but instead look at the colours and shapes of things; see if they remind you of anything else."

Dean's eyes were on Walter, "Hmm..." he looked at his tutor for another moment before falling silent. When he finally did speak again, his voice was shy and he wouldn't look at Walter. "Your freckles remind me of the speckles on a robin's egg."

"Not bad. Eggs are symbols of rebirth, the teacher would like it."

"Ok, what've you got then, Red?"

Walter cleared this throat and said in deadpan,

"Tyger! Tyger! burning bright,

In the forests of the night,

What immortal hand or eye

Could frame thy fearful symmetry?

In what distant deeps or skies

Burnt the fire in thine eyes?

On what wings dare he aspire?

What the hand dare seize the fire? "

For a moment, Dean looked awestruck. Walter looked smug. Slowly, Dean's expression twisted into disgust as he whacked Walter lightly in the arm. "You little bastard! We covered that last month in class!"

Walter looked at where his arm had been touched curiously while grinning into his hand. "Just testing how much you're remembering, Dean. This stuff is on tests."

Dean let out a frustrated puff of air. "Man, I don't need this stuff. Soon as I graduate this year, I'm going into the army."

"What? But you still have another year!"

"Oh, well sort of. Either I repeat this year and have to finish high-school, or I finish this year and join the army. My birthday's in a couple of months; I'll be eighteen then. Dad put these stupid conditions on me, though..."

"Should be grateful you have a father to care."

"I am. It's just, you know. He's not around and this place sucks." Dean didn't ask about Walter's mother. The one time he had, it hadn't gone well.

"It could be worse."

"Yeah yeah, I know, it can always be worse. Anyway, what the hell did you write?"

Walter passed over his notebook, it read:

"Winter was a hollow echo

of potential long spent, now dormant

life faded into black white and grey

Spring is a rainbowed refraction

of promises unfulfilled, lies not meant

death in waiting stalks shrill voiced blue-jay"

Dean was taken aback, "Blank verse?"

Walter shrugged, "If Mr. Dougherty won't accept it, I'll do something else. They're not expecting sonnets out of us."

***

Spring break came, such as it was. Dean's father came and took the boy away so they could have the week together as a family. The cherry blossoms fell, and Walter's mood with them. He found the extra money in his wallet a poor comfort without Dean.

Mr. Springfield had had a few words with Walter before he left, "I hear you've been helping Dean with his studies. I'm Luke Springfield."

Walter was wary as the two shook hands. He wasn't sure what to make of this situation. Formalities, he supposed. "Yes Sir. I'm Walter Kovacs and I'm helping Dean with English and literature."

"I hope you're not one of those arty liberal fags, son. Keep your spine straight and your head down. I'm grateful for your help with Dean, but at the same time I'm a little sad. I was hoping extra time in school would help with his maturity. War is hell, Walter. I don't know why my eldest is so eager to throw his life away..."

Walter wouldn't dare shrug, that was far too flippant a gesture for this man. Instead, he dared to hold Luke's gaze with his own, "He wants to do you proud, Sir. Uphold family tradition." Murky coloured eyes with a sharp, hawk-like gaze. How like yet unlike his son this man was. Walter wondered what Dean's brother was like.

Luke shook his head, "Yes, that sounds like Dean. You're astute, Kovacs. Keep your nose clean and you may get somewhere. Thank-you for helping my son with his schoolwork. Good-bye." With that dismissal, he left Walter.

Walter's birthday came and went over spring break. He was 17, but there would be no presents.

***

After a great deal of thought, one day while they were studying, or trying, (Dean insisted on finishing the newest issue of Superman), Walter told Dean what his career choice would be.  
"I'll become an officer of the law," he said.

Dean's head whipped up from the comic he was reading. "What?"

"I can't do America justice by joining in war efforts, but I can help clean up here at home."

Dean was thoughtful, worrying his lip between his teeth. Walter tried not to look. "Yeah Red, sounds good. You're a bit scrawny though."

Walter bowed his head and sighed inaudibly. Yes, that was true, but...

"Dean, p..please help me. Help me to get stronger."

Dean brightened, "Hey yeah, sure! That's a great idea! Join the school boxing club, and I'll look out for you there."

And so he did. The next year, after Dean left, he joined gymnastics. Boxing was pointless unless he could get sweaty with Dean. No one else gave him as much of a work out.

***

Getting strong enough to not be a joke outside his division in boxing club was difficult. Dean was as good as his word; he gave Walter a regimen of exercises to do and a training routine. Walter did fine in the light welterweight division because of his sheer viciousness and tenacity; but he longed to be strong enough to live up to his friend's expectations. To give Dean a run for his money in a fight.

Dean was a patient trainer and sparring partner; ruthless, fluid, and efficient in his movements, deadly calm. Walter began to idolize his friend. It was a thing of beauty, watching Dean fight. Club rules stated that a winner was declared when first blood was drawn. Walter longed to split Dean's lip, see blood fly.

As these things do, one day it came to a head. Five months after Walter started tutoring Dean; it was June, and Dean was antsy. Walter was at least as bad; it felt like insects were burrowing under his skin and marching across his bones every hour of every day. When he tried to sleep, the vision behind his eyelids was red and he tasted blood in his mouth. He had troubled dreams of licking coppery blood off of salty skin; didn't remember them on waking.

Walter couldn't bear it. He didn't want to let go of one of the only friends he'd ever had. Dean was excited, desperate to escape. It was after a boxing club meeting, they were cleaning up before heading off to study, and still pumped full of adrenaline.

"Dean, it might be better if you stayed another year. I think your father would like it." Walter would like it.

Dean's face, already flushed from physical exertion, flushed farther in anger. "Don't talk to me about my father!"

"I'm sorry if I crossed a line. He did mention to me that he'd prefer you stay, however."

Dean snorted, calmed a little "Yeah, well tough shit on what the old man wants. A deal's a deal."

Walter's heart broke a little. He didn't know what to do. "Dean, I will... I will miss you."

"Aww, you little fag. Adorable," Dean grinned, and noogied the shorter boy's hair. "Yeah I know. But listen, I gotta' do what I gotta' do. And I already have a little brother, Red."

Walter squirmed under Dean's arm, in a headlock. He felt trapped and confused. And angry... very angry. Seemingly of its own accord, his mouth closed around Dean's arm and bit. Hard. Hard enough to draw blood.

Dean abruptly released the other boy and pressed his hand down onto the wound. "Oww! What the fuck! Jesus Walter, what's your problem?"

Walter could taste blood. He licked it off of his lips. His body, traitorously, was rock hard. Every ounce of him tensed, including the part he pretended didn't exist except while urinating.

"I...I don't want you to leave, Dean." Walter was panting, and his erection was clearly visible.

Dean noticed, his expression was caught between morbid curiousity and amusement. "You sound like a girl, Red."

With a small roar, Walter leapt at Dean and crashed hard against him, into the lockers behind the two boys. He ground his erection into Dean's hip, his teeth on the other boy's neck, and snarled.

"I'm not a girl! I'm not one of your little whores!"

Dean was a bit dazed, in shock. His hand came up to rest on Walter's head. He stroked the redhead's hair, both their bodies trembling, "Shh. I know, Red. Relax. I'll stay." Dean said, gently taking hold of Walter's wrists and starting to disentangle them.

Walter was still shaking, and his eyes were wet with the kind gesture. He didn't know what to do, so he let Dean separate them. "Alright. Good," he said, and slumped against the locker and Dean's side.  
"Dean. My mother died. I..."

Shocked, Dean put his arm around Walter's shoulders in a loose, one-armed hug.  
"Walter, I'm sorry... why. Why didn't you tell me?"

Water slowly leaked out of Walter's eyes. "I thought it was irrelevant. She died at the hands of her pimp. She beat me. I hated her..."

Things clicked into please for Dean. Attention, physical contact, fighting, his sexual reputation. To his friend, Dean was... a substitute. Perhaps better than the original, but a substitute all the same. Just like Walter had been a substitute for his scrawny, nerdy little brother.

Dean lifted Walter's chin and forced the other boy to meet his eyes. Walter saw the depth of compassion and understanding in his friend's murk coloured eyes, "I understand. Red, let's make the most of it." Dean turned his body into Walter's, and they shared a single, gentle kiss.

They never talked of the incident or Walter's home-life again, nor did Dean speak of leaving. He simply left, forever taking a piece of Walter's heart with him. It had been intended to be quick and painless, like ripping off a scab, but he never recovered. Spring's promises remained unfulfilled, though the lies had been meant.


	8. Dichotomy VIII

Title: Dichotomy VIII  
Pairings: none, particularly  
Warnings: none, stereo-typing  
Time period: 1957  
Summary : needles and thread; why wasn't Walter Kovacs a police officer?

Whoreson, Whoreson, Whoreson! Why? Why did it always have to come back to his mother?

Walter was curled up on his cot at the home; it was summer after he had finished his schooling and his graduate year. The Superman existed and he was American; Walter however, was a mess of misery and defeat, in a fetal ball. Dimly, he recalled the events at the police station. He had passed the physical exam to be an NYPD police officer with flying colours; it was the psychological exam and his history that had failed him.

***

The police had it on record that Walter's mother was a whore. That he had been taken away from her as a young adult and sent to an orphanage after getting in a fight. A bout of savagery where he had burned another child's eye and had to be hauled off of pounding in another's face. Because of this, his psychological profile, and his mother's profession, they had deemed him unsuitable.

"You were raised by a prostitute Mr. Kovacs, we of the NYPD can't believe your morality would be rigorous enough to withstand our line of work." The old Irish sergeant giving him the breakdown of events seemed kindly, but there was a sneer hidden in the lines around his eyes, the narrowness of his gaze.

The other officer in the room, of polish descent like Walter himself, picked up where his partner left off; his gaze was piercing.

"Quite frankly, Mr. Kovacs, we believe your attitude towards the fairer sex, lack of empathy, and violent tendencies, are a severe liability for this job. If you are truly serious about becoming a police officer, you must see women as people before you see them as criminals or victims."

Every last word felt like a stab in Walter's gut. He hadn't cared deeply about anything for a very long time, and he had trained his body day and night for becoming a police officer. He had studied law as best he could from the library at the home, and was sure he had a handle on how police procedures went. He'd even memorized the Miranda Rights speech. Head down, he left the interview room, a heavy weight on his shoulders. Outside, some regular beat cops accosted him. One was very visibly overweight, and the other even homelier than Walter.

"Didn't make the cut, kid? It's 'cause yer a faggy li'l arty liberal," Fat cop said, blowing some smoke into Walter's face as he passed by. Walter stared for a moment, looking at the cop's uniform. He reflected that this sample of "New York's finest" didn't deserve his badge.

"Yeah, your best subjects in school were English and Religion? Why don't you become a priest, kiddy fiddler!" Ugly cop jeered.

"Plus I seen the way you been eyein' my uniform. You one of them vigilante rejects? Not good enough for the Minutemen? Into costumes? I bet you get off on it, and that's the reason why you wanna' join, ain't it fag-boy!"Fat cop said.

"No! NO! I want to clean up streets! I want to help people!" Walter growled. He had stopped dead in his tracks, hands balled into fists.

"Why, 'cause you can't suck from your momma's tits no more 'cause of that pimp? Out for revenge? Pathetic." Fat cop said, blowing more smoke.

"Read The New Frontiersman or something, bleeding heart liberal fag-boy!" Ugly cop said.

Walter stared. Then he stared some more. He alternated locking gazes with both cops, his gaze cold fire. He reminded himself that if he so much as stepped a toe out of line, there he would never be a chance of joining the force, and both these scummy assholes knew it.

"Got somethin' you wanna' say? I'm all ears, princess!" Fat cop said, tossing his cigarette onto the pavement and stamping it out with his foot.

Walter's gaze didn't waver, but as he slowly walked away, his voice came low and without intonation. "I will remember your faces," he promised.

Despite themselves, both cops shuddered.

***

He'd taken the train back to the home, numb from shock. Dean had been the one to suggest he find a path in life where he could help others. Give back to his country. Be a part of something bigger. It had failed, like getting Dean to stay had failed. Fire and shadow. A temporary warmth and an illusion that something more was ever there. When taken away, it left Walter no warmer.

Walter had two months to find a job that got him out of the home before he was turned loose on the streets. He decided to ask the head of the home if he could job shadow the staff who had remained for the summer, find a task that suited him for making a living.

He tried cooking, but had no aptitude for it. He tried various branches of house-cleaning, but hated it for the tedium and how much of a woman's job it was. He couldn't bare to try tutoring again, and so had no desire to become a teacher. Though he was bright, accounting wanted nothing to do with him. This left laundry services. The clothing the children got at the home was largely through donation and the Salvation army, and thus often needed patching, hemming or sewing.

The elderly black lady he was assisting was very no-nonsense but often cracked jokes, which she laughed at. Walter came to like her a little. "Child, you homely. But you got a good eye on you and your hands are clever. I don't think you're half bad at this. Time comes, I'll give you a letter of reference. Now let's see if I can help you find someplace to work. You wanna' go to the city?"

Over-whelmed, Walter merely nodded. It wasn't so bad. He could do it. Children's clothing was largely unisex, and so this task did not bother him.

"Alright, I think I still know some people there. Dun' you worry, old Constance will take care of you."

"Thank-you, Ms. Constance."

Later, with the surprising discovery that he'd be handling women's wear at work, he heard the old woman's laughter echoing in his mind.


	9. Dichotomy XI

Title: Dichotomy IX  
Pairings: Rorschach / Nite Owl II  
Warnings: none, self-harm  
Time period: early 1960s  
Summary : skin and fabric; Nite owl sees Rorschach with his mask partially off for the first time.  
Disclaimer : The Watchmen is property of Alan Moore and Dave Gibbons.

It was after coming home from patrol for the night. In the bathroom, Walter had finished washing his face. No matter how hard he scrubbed, the warped reflection in the cracked mirror above the sink had remained unchanged. About to shave, he stared at his pearl-handled straight razor, the hot weight of temptation on his chest. Alluring idea, giving himself markings like a venomous toad. Signal to stay away. Warning his skin currently bereft of. His breath wheezed and his heart beat erratically.

The urge to mutilate the filthy sack of flesh known as Walter Kovacs burned inside of Rorschach. The lie had compromised him. He wanted to scar; criss-cross his skin, a series of angry red lines chartering a grid of madness. No one. No one would ever look at him that way again. Daniel should not have ever looked at him that way.

Nite Owl had seen a small part of Walter Kovacs peeking out from underneath Rorschach's face; his chin, stubbled with gingery fluff, old scars, and freckles. Rorschach recalled night that had preceded it.

***

The Red Baron Gang had visited a strip club. Apparently, they had been celebrating the occasion of one man's betrothal. The results had not been favourable for the adult entertainers who worked there, nor ultimately their clientele. It had been a difficult fight; the drunken audience was having trouble distinguishing reality from falsehood, and would not go to safety. Rorschach had had great fun with glass bottles, cigarette lighters, napkins, pool cues, and other sundries his hands found during the fight. Nite Owl was also in fine form, taking out multiple opponents with increased tolerance for pain in flurries of unmitigated violence.

It happened later. Ensconced in Archie after subduing the rowdy criminals and calling the police, night's patrols ended. Rorschach had received nasty slashes from the groom-to-be's engagement ring where he'd been clocked in the jaw. He could lick the cuts on the corner of his mouth and lip from inside the mask, but it was troublesome.

He pulled the mask up for a moment to attend the wounds. Rorschach's tongue slid slowly over his lips before finding the lacerations and nudging at them. He poked and prodded at the injuries with the tip of his tongue and looked over at Nite Owl about to ask his partner for alcohol to disinfect the wound.

The expression on Nite Owl's face was a betrayal. Undisguised lust and fascination. A violation of their partnership. All that was good between them! Justice, retribution, working together as a well-oiled machine of punishment, shattered by one look and a few inches of Walter's skin.

Rorschach lost his voice. Usually taciturn, he could find no words at all. Silently, he pulled the mask back down and turned away from Daniel.

***

He couldn't. He couldn't voluntarily harm himself. Could not enact the rite of self-reclamation. It would compromise his daytime identity; make the lie more recognizable while bringing it closer to the truth. Nor could he harm himself where the scars would not be visible; a secret geis, sigil against lust. Had scars already. Ultimately, pointless exercise that would give the city's predators a temporary advantage over him.

Daniel was not supposed to care what he looked like. Walter was not only dead and buried, he was unmourned. The skin underneath was meaningless; merely canvas beneath artwork. Framework and structure necessary; drawing underneath moot point when covered with thick enough paint.

A long time passed, and Daniel never uncovered the filth beneath pristine black and white. The smudges on his fingers from newsprint did it for him.


End file.
